Tevatron
by Dim Aldebaran
Summary: He doesn't fall downwards: he falls in a circle. [oneshot dark abstract, GrubHolly TroubleHolly]


T E V A T R O N

- Dim Aldebaran -

**:i:**

"_Oh, Grub?"_

_She nodded. "He…**stares**."_

_A shrug. "So? Let him learn."_

* * *

You don't mind it, most of the time. It's like that chronic itch of yours, the one that you can't scratch in public without getting looks—but you like those sideway slips of the eye, those disbelieving double-takes, those stares lengthened to disgusted examinations, demonizations. They acknowledge that, despite it all, you still exist.

You wonder if it should be this way: then stop, since Mummy doesn't approve the subsequent thoughts. They aren't very nice, she says.

* * *

"_Why is he like that?"_

_Another shrug; commonplace. "Dunno."_

"_It's—it's not right."

* * *

_

You open your door, with your keys and your password; somehow, not quite yours. He left his clothes on the couch again; you gather them up and make for the laundry chute. It's your daily apology for existing: not that he ever forgives you.

Confessional, those petty attempts to make him accept, came next—but you stop on the way to the kitchen. A—sound, low, rhythmic, guttural.

You aren't naïve; it's a familiar sound in your flat. It stung more, somehow, knowing who she was this time. You make for your room instead.

* * *

"_He's not stupid, you know."_

"_Bullshit."_

"_He's human—isn't he?"

* * *

_

You lie, catatonic, on your bed, laying so still you can imagine that you're dead—but you know he won't care, _she_ won't care, so you stop playing pretend and advance to the more grown-up game of rationalizing.

You drown in something suitably hard; but the heavy, ragged beat reminds you in a most candid manner, so you change to a slow cello _adagio_, rich red satin that only accentuates your woes. You finally settle with a quicksilver fiddle_ vivace_, an artificial happiness that bears only faint resemblance to the next room over. You hum along brokenly.

* * *

"_Tell him to go away." _

"_Why?"_

"—_please," she said. "I don't like it."

* * *

_

But eventually, you don't feel like proving those bed-wetting taunts at work true, so you risked the sound of heartbreak and make for the lavatory—and there is no sound of heartbreak, but the sound of your heart shattering as stained glass, catching the light as the shards of your life fall, a thousand hues of a single color, the variance the simplest one of all.

Simple orgasm you could have dealt with: his little flings seldom lasted more than a month; two, if she was fast. She'd be there, then gone—and you could keep on hoping in your clingy mildew sort of way. But—laughter, mutual, melding into a beautiful and terrible music, true enough to tear your heart in twain—

* * *

"_I'll deal with him later."_

"_Don't hurt him."_

"_Why not? He doesn't care."

* * *

_

You think of blood, red as the genesis dawn, blood, red as the apocalyptic sunset —sacrilegious, perhaps, but blasphemy became this child. Only adults believe in a god, for they alone are capable of doubting.

You make for the gun, initially, but these guns are too neat, there'd be no blood, no pain, no screams—and you want the blood, the chaos, the slipknot entropy of finally being **alive**, the rush, the torrent, anything to drown this sudden monster that rises tall and proclaims: _This is who you are_; to drown with this star-hot sanity, or perhaps to feed—

There are knives. You rejoice as you test their edges against your palm, watching that crimson of a messiah's blood well up and coat your reflection. You cannot help but stare at yourself, twisted and distorted by the lees of blood—you had never been a narcissist before. You had always been too busy with another infatuation.

* * *

"_Please, that isn't right—"_

_He ceded in words: "Alright."_

—_pause. "Thank you."

* * *

_

Before you leave, there is a spark of madness in this strange sanity: _why is she different?_

The monster rears up, and begins the charge; you can only run at its side, race, in fact, towards the sound of laughter, the sound of love.

**:i:**

The Tevatron is an electron accelerator near Chicago. It makes sense to me, as a title choice. Besides: it sounds cool. Like some superhero/villain: _Tevatron to the rescue! _Well, I stole this from Gumbutt's physics homework, which she was doing during the awards ceremony for sci-oly. Random Tangent: I got THREE medals at the invitational yesterday! So I'm very Happy right now.

What else… well, this is another possible entry to the Crim challenge, but I don't know if I want to use it, since one ship is subtle, and the other isn't so much. Plus the alternating POVs has to be very confuzzling. Do you guys think that it would qualigy with having equal time to build up each ship? Please say!

CC much desired – I don't think these will get beta'd, since the White Lily, who usually does my stuff, is busy judging the Orions right now. So, help is Muchly Yearned For.

Thanks for reading!


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